Once Bitten Twice Shy
by Elinai
Summary: Draco Malfoy: dead and extremely dangerous. Hermione Granger: the Rehabilitation Officer assigned to his case. Post War. Snarky Draco. Eventual romance. Middling length.
1. Once shhy

**Disclaimer: I own EVERYTHING. In opposite land.**

**Quick House Rules before we start  
****Setting**: Set after the War. Book compliant, diverges from epilogue.  
**Narrative** Voice: 3rd person, multiple shifts between Hermione's and Draco's POV  
**Rating**: T to M because language, and Draco, in summary. Enough said.  
**Updating**: On a strict schedule of Whenever the Hell I Can Be Arsed to Write More Stuff

Here we go. Story time:

* * *

_Chapter One - Once SHHY  
__In which our Heroine meets a Ghost From her Past, a Non-Practicing Death Eater, a Snarky Slytherin, and a Vexed Vampire.__Or maybe all at once._

Hermione scraped her woolly hair back into a no-nonsense bun as she sidestepped a Muggle commuter. She snapped the elastic around her bun, knowing in the distant chambers of her vast mind there was a Charm for doing her hair, but well, it was _her_ hair they were talking about, and besides, she'd always been better engaged in learning the _important_ Charms at school. _Id est_, the life-saving ones.

Her wayward Charmed leather Gladstone bag let loose a low growl and snapped at the luckless passer-by. Hermione idly slapped it to behave and it returned to banging a sullen metronome at her hip. _That's what happens when you accept presents from Hagrid_, Hermione mused. She wasn't sure if it was his magic that made the bag recalcitrant, or the residual magic from the animal the bag _used_ to be. But she couldn't _not_ use it because, well, Hagrid was Hagrid, and Hermione was Hermione. 'Always trying to please everyone' Hermione.

She tapped the bag's clasp three times and demanded the most recent paperwork. The bag reluctantly spat out the parchment. The pages were a little dog-eared, but with a little tinkering (especially to get the bag to recognise and _file_ paperwork) it was a definite improvement on the ripped shreds she encountered the first time she delved into it.

_Patient: 76152  
__Gender: Male  
__Age: appears to be in early twenties  
__Breed: Vampire  
__Status: Recently turned  
__Rehabilitation Referral: unclaimed by Vampire maker and Undead community.__Turning circumstances believed to be accidental by-product of exsanguination or targeted revenge attack. Unconfirmed.  
__Recommendation: patient has no support network in new Vampire community.__Previous lifestyle not conductive to patient's health._ That 'lifestyle not conductive' phrase could mean anything from 'he used to be a professional surfer in the sunny Bahamas' to 'has small children he now views as food'.  
_Rehabilitation officer SHHY  
_Hermione frowned at the 'shy' code. It was an acronym for 'Should Have Happened Yesterday'.

She stepped into the foyer of St Mungos, seeming not to hear the frantic chimes and bells of hospital warnings, and the groans and yells – and occasional laughter (in the case of the Tickling Rash) - of patients. She made her way to her office, dumping her Gladstone bag on the coat-rack. Then she stood for a moment by the shelves, eyeing the labels: _werewolf, centaurs, fae, giants, merfolk_ – before seizing the basket on the shelf labelled _vampire_. There weren't many left, and she'd have to pick up more supplies later today. She pulled open a drawer and administered her safety gear – a few spritzes of a water-and-garlic perfume spray on the major pulse points of her wrists, elbows and neck to mask the smell of her blood, and she was ready. By the door of her office were several small mats, each emblazoned with a roman numeral. It was her own invention – tired of ducking into fireplaces and brushing Floo powder off her robes, and sometimes too hurried to give Apparation her full concentration, her squares were Charmed to take her to the correct ward. She stepped on the V square and was instantly transported to the fifth floor wing.

The ward's windows were draped in heavy black-out curtains, and to be safe, the windows themselves tinted with a Perpetual Night Charm. Hermione cast Lumos to light her way and followed the glow-in-the-dark strip markings (her idea, stolen from the Muggle lights in aeroplanes) down the blackened corridor until she reached the correct door. She knocked once, then entered to see her patient.

The room was brightly lit. So bright, she blinked several times to clear the shadows away.

On the bed sat Draco Malfoy.

_OhMerlinhe'shere._

Just sitting there with the same sense of entitlement as a king on a throne.

Malfoy cast a baleful glare at her wand. "If you're here for revenge, Granger, I'm already dead, so put the fucking wand away."

_Kill him?_

Hermione looked down at her hand.  
Her fingers were clenched around her wand, her tight grip the only reason her whole hand wasn't shaking.  
_When had I done that?_ Then she noticed the glowing end, and recalled the Lumos charm.  
"Nix," Hermione whispered. She was too disorientated to cancel her Charm mentally.

In response, the vampire in the bed gave an unimpressed look, one frost-white eyebrow fractionally lifting in his alabaster face. "Not you, Granger, please. Please, tell me Weasely's got some fatal mutation of dragon pox and you're here inflicting your unwanted presence upon him instead. Better yet, tell me Harry Pratter and his tortured-hero angst has finally offed himself and you're here to identify his dead body."

_Of all places, he has to come into my work_.

Hermione struggled to calm her half-times racing and other-times stuttering heartbeat. It wouldn't do to have an episode and be admitted as a patient herself.

That logical part of Hermione's mind that wouldn't let her simply block out Draco's existence knew Malfoy wasn't dead after the war, and maybe she even rationalised what he might be doing with the rest of his life. Usually she envisioned him holed up in an old hunting lodge or pillared secret-society building wearing moth-eaten ferret-trimmed stoles, reminiscing about the good old days of Voldemort. Maybe once or twice she'd relived punching Malfoy in third year, and letting his wince warm the cockles of her heart. But she'd never imagined them actually crossing paths in the real world.

_Why, Circe, why_?

The hospital lights were not kind to Malfoy's complexion – he looked worse than he had in sixth year. His skin was chalk-and-bone, his pale hair looked like wilted grass blades. Shadows pooled in the recesses of his cheeks and throat, and dark smears under his eye sockets were the only thing giving his face some depth. Bloodshot red eyes coloured his monochromatic appearance.

Hermione pocketed her wand, while her internal safety alarm rang klaxons. Firstly, he was Draco Malfoy and he hated her. Secondly, he was a Vampire and he could kill her. But sitting with a knitted pastel hospital blanket tucked around his knees, he looked... ill. Frail.

_Do __not__feel sorry for him,_ she chided herself.

Malfoy's brows slid together in a scowl. "Why are you here?"  
Hermione sunk into a visitor's chair beside his bed, ankles crossed, basket clasped in her lap. "I'm here to help you."  
"You're fucking late to that party as well, Granger. I'm already dead. Shouldn't you have tried to make yourself useful and tried to prevent _that_?"  
Hermione tightened her grip on the basket handle and gritted through her teeth, "Admittedly, I am rather behind on that front, but if you tell me who killed you, I'll be the first to-"  
"-Launch an official investigation?" Malfoy interrupted with a scornful snort. "Remedy the situation?"  
She plonked the wicker hamper on the foot of his bed. "-Send them this Honeydukes hamper and a thank-you card."

That wasn't actually the basket's purpose, but it was still leagues better than belting him over the head with it, which had been her initial plan once that infernal smirk started spreading over his lips like a bloodstain.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Hermione in calculation. "Maybe you set this whole thing up Granger. A Death Order."

"Malfoy," Hermione sighed, pushing her loose hair back off her forehead to rub her brow. "I really don't care. I don't care enough to kill you. I don't care that you died. I don't care about you." She gave a little internal wince at her words. She was in a hospital visiting a sick patient. She was supposed to be cool, calm and professional. Not heartless. She rubbed her fingertips across her forehead and braced for a blistering Draco comeback expressing his likewise sentiments.

Draco's grey eyes seemed to lighten. "Bit cruel Granger, with me at my deathbed and everything." He paused. "Perhaps _you_ should deliver the eulogy at my funeral instead of Father."

In her mind's eye she pictured Lucius Malfoy, with his black staff and angular, snake-like features. The dark, oppressive manor –and it had to be called a manor, not a house – and certainly not a home, not with every added extension and room more like a festering infection spreading further decay. Living in that... _place_, with that family... Cruelty was probably what Draco saw as affection.

"I'm not being cruel," Hermione hurriedly recanted. "I'm just not... concerned."  
"Then piss off, Granger. You're of no help to me."  
Hermione seemed hurt, or confused. Either expression was rare for her. "But - you volunteered for the rehabilitation programme."  
His gaze finally stopped skirting around the room and made full eye-contact with her. Granite grey eyes glared at her. "_You_ work here? _You're_ the '_specialist'_ they sent to 'calm' me?" He gave a bitter scoff. "Perfect. That's like throwing dynamite into a Floo fire."  
Hermione thinned her mouth but didn't rise to his baiting. "I understand the transition can be stressful."  
"I can assure you, I did not volunteer for this painful bedside visit. I assume you, goody-two-shoes that you are, heard I was invalided here in this ... state, and you stuck your hand up in the air just like you did in every class at school. Why Mungo's agreed with it is beyond-"

Draco froze on that unpleasant thought. Ever since Granger walked in his door he'd been trying to puzzle out _why_. Revenge, for what he did in sixth and seventh year? Spite, to see him brought so low? Sheer malicious helpfulness? He thought perhaps with her bookish naïveté it was possible she'd misguidedly think she could 'fix' his nature and have the vampire drinking organic hand-pressed tomato juice out of her filthy mudblood hand.

He narrowed his eyes at her, considering. In return, she stared back at him benignly, her brown eyes warm as ever, her eyebrows framing faint surprise. He was skilled at Legimancy, but in his current discombobulated state he couldn't focus on reading her thoughts. And Granger usually had a _lot_ of them rattling around in her head, so he decided not to push it. He'd have to read social cues and body language instead. And considering he'd relied heavily on Occlumency since school, his social skills had withered in direct proportion.

_Why would Granger bring herself here_?

Malfoy let his eyes flick up and down and tried to hide his horror as he considered the pathetic excuse for a witch in front of him. For someone who beat him in both OWLS and NEWTS, she looked like she could barely dress herself. He decided to start from the top, least offensive thing about Granger: her hair. For once it was pinned up instead of swarming over the nearest person like a creeper-vine. He eyed the bun with displeasure – apart from the atrocious slap-dash job, the coiled-up hair looked barely contained and ready to blow. Why she clearly never bothered with any of simple Charms that most girls her age had learned to tame that monstrous mop, he'd never understand.

Hermione, noticing Malfoy's judgemental smirk, blushed. He quickly decided he preferred the hair down, hiding her Mudblood face. Also, the reddening of her face drew Malfoy's attention to her blush. He knew she was embarrassed, but old Malfoy would know _why_. Was she ashamed about her hair? Ashamed he'd noticed? Ashamed of what he was?

He canted his head and tried harder to read her thoughts.

_Fuckall_.

Her blush, if anything, deepened, and he cursed her lack of hair buffering her rose-tinted skin from his eyes. Granger, ever the competitor, didn't colour delicately, but blushed a fierce and fiery shade of red.

And the new Malfoy, the Vampire part, started to notice.


	2. Once bitten

**Oh, yeah, heads-up: at the start of every chapter I do this thing where I have special tee-a-tee-time with my reviewers. If that bothers you because you're not one of the chosen few, you just skip down to the line break. Or review. Reader's choice. **

**Many thanks to Gullb3rg, Honoria Granger and eponymous ****Guest who gambled on an unknown story, reviewed the first chapter, and helped raise this humble little FF from the obscurity of new story-ness. Bless. Gullb3rg - I'm sorry for any mistakes! I don't have betas but I do try to edit and polish. Lemme know if there's anything glaringly slapping you in the face and I'll fix it. Honoria Granger - if you're anti-vampire (vampire-prejudiced, or vampire-racist, if you will), instead maybe think of Malfoy not as a vampire, but as Living-Challenged. If that helps any? Thanks for reviewing it regardless ;) and Guest - you officially made the top of my Best Reviewer List. Yes, I play favourites. And yes, you are said favourite. **

**Story Time:**

* * *

_Chapter Two - Once Bitten  
__In which reveries are dreamt, words are sworn, and the Killing Curse is cast._

_Malfoy leapt out of bed before her eyes even registered he'd moved, swiping Hermione to the floor and covering her body with his so she couldn't escape – pinning her down at her shoulders, neck, hips. __The breath knocked out of her with a sharp gasp, and he was close enough to feel it flutter past his ear. __The back of her head hit the tiled floor with a hard thud (because he sure as hell didn't cushion _her_) and that blow helped keep her disoriented as he looked into her molten brown eyes – unfocussed as they were, he did it anyway, drilling down to penetrate the fugue so she knew what was coming, so she could feel powerless for once in her life and helpless as he sometimes felt as he leant in... _

_He drew back for a second, pausing to brush some of her hair away from her still-blushed cheek. _ _She recovered her senses and struggled, but he pushed her down hard with the strength he felt roaring and frothing through his veins like white-water. __He might have even allowed himself to smile down, so she could see his sharp fangs and know what darkness was coming to her._

_He thought about tracing around her cheek with one of his fangs – her blush had faded away in fright, but too late, Granger, no-one likes a cock-tease.__He did it anyway, and kept tracing that one fang-point lightly from her temple across to her cheek bone – he might even make a detour to her lips, bite down a little harder to press his fang right in the middle of her plump bottom lip, and she'd trembled at that, her shudder causing his fang point to pierce the tiniest seam of her lip, but before he tasted the blood beading there he'd drag his fangs down her jaw-line hard enough to raise red scores._

_He'd stop when he was resting over her neck, right over that pulsing point, beating frantically like dove wings trapped against cage bars and then he'd plunge- _

Draco mentally shook himself from his reverie.

_No! __He'd never- that Mudblood's tainted—drink from her \- never!_

He inwardly shuddered as he adjusted his pastel blanket, tucking it tighter around himself, almost as if to tether himself to the bed to prevent him for leaping out and setting his little fang-fantasy into motion.

Granger shifted uneasily at his prolonged silence. For a split moment she could have sworn Malfoy's gaze flickered and turned predatory, with an edge of something _else_ that remained infuriately undefinable. Then he went back to straightening his blanket, his precise actions implying he would love to use it as a containment barrier to prevent her Mudbloodness from infecting him or some such Muggle-phobic nonsense.

Draco, meanwhile, continued mentally raging and cursing at himself. _If she knew my thoughts_... Draco admonished himself. _I'd have to kill myself. __Then her, for making me think those things. __Or her first._

Draco decided to capitulate his attempt to read Granger's thoughts, or at the very least, her motives for visiting him. Reading the bushy Mudblood's body language involved _looking_ directly at her and acknowledging her presence, and that was just too odious a task for him in his fragile state. Malfoy looked away and scowled at the potted plant some idiot had left on the sill.

But he had to discover her motivations for being here, so he could formulate the correct response.

Judging by the lack of a smirk on her face, he didn't _think_ she realised just how much her presence vexed him, so he certainly wouldn't ever let on. But that still left him with the problem of Granger's immediate company by his bedside. He didn't ask for the Scar-head sympathiser, and now Granger seemed so stunned to see him Draco was considering believing her innocence.

Which just left... money.

Money was always a good reason for anything abnormal – read, in Draco's case: _compassionate_ \- happening. Perhaps all his family's donations to Mungos had helped him, after all. Perhaps the one reason he was recovering in a hospital, instead of actually beheaded in a coffin or staked out in the desert sun somewhere was because somewhere, Galleons had changed hands.

Malfoy stopped plucking at the blanket to regard Hermione through icy eyes. "Are my parents paying you?" Hermione had been staring out the window, mentally crossing off the seconds until it was polite enough for her to leave and never see Malfoy again. She startled at his sudden shattering of the awkward silence he'd been so adroitly cultivating.

_Oh, he's acknowledging I exist now?__That question is directed at me?_

"I'll match it – hell, Granger, I'll triple it - if you just sod off."  
"I'm not being bribed. I'm employed by the Ministry. This programme I'm running is a trial, granted, but the results have been encouraging and I'm hoping consistently high positive results will lead to more funding and resources, so indirectly I guess there might be Galleons changing hands-"  
Malfoy held up a slender hand. "Don't think I could give less of a fuck about your job. Other than you're so inept at it you're obviously not getting paid for it, or paid off to look after me."  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "I am _not_ your private nurse, if that's what you're getting at."  
"Thank fuck for that. So if you're not going to turn my sheets over... why exactly are you here? Apart from passive-aggressively gloat?"  
"I'm your Rehabilitation Officer. I'm here to help you assimilate into society."  
Malfoy made a scoffing noise in his throat. "What's the chance in that, Granger, when your own self can't even manage that."  
Hermione raised her eyes heavenward to beg for patience. To calm the roiling, seething part of her mind that told her to hit Malfoy, she mindlessly quoted the regulations that governed her work. "As part of the **_Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans_**, you are entitled to a Rehabilitation Officer during the foremost weeks, to assist your transition from –"  
"Non-Wizard?" he interrupted with a fox-like bark.  
_Of course he skipped right over the 'part-human' bit_, Hermione thought. _That just proves he never was properly human to begin with_.  
"As a Vampire, your wizarding powers died with...well, I don't think you _had_ a soul to begin with, but that's an entirely different medical malady."  
"Explain," Malfoy demanded. "Briskly. In one sentence."  
_You're-a-git_. Hermione thought. _Enough said_. Draco seemed to realise his command was a little broad, but he held his tongue, relying on Granger's pathological need to answer questions, especially ones Malfoy didn't know. Stony silence was never a treatment she administered well. Sure enough, she opened her mouth to rattle off an explanation of his condition. "Basically, the magic that now animates you and keeps you from becoming a rotting, dead corpse cannot sustain any other additional magic."  
"I don't," Malfoy gritted, "have magic?"  
His whole body tensed, his jaw tightening. For a few moments, Malfoy appeared to hold his breath. Hermione waited for him to release one of the martyred sighs he often did at Hogwarts, but then she remembered: _he doesn't breathe_. He might have been sitting in his bed with casual aloofness, but it wasn't that he was poorly and debilitated with illness. And it wasn't a pause as he processed the information she'd told him, or even shocked silence.

It was deceptive stillness.  
It was the act of a predator about to strike.

She raised her wand in defence a moment before Malfoy shot his hand out. Normally she'd outdraw him. But this time it was different because he wasn't the Malfoy she'd gone to school with for years. Slim fingers captured her wrist with preternatural speed while she was only half-way through her incantation, and the spell blasted at the ceiling, raining ineffective sparks down on them.

_Stupid_, her inner-self scolded as the spent spell skittered silvery trails around the hospital bed-spread. _You're a Rehabilitation Officer – you should have known better._ _And now you won't get a chance to correct your error. __Because now you're dead_.

Her hand felt curiously numb, and she expected he'd broken her wrist with his strength. She risked a quick look, hoping she still had a hand at all. Pale white fingers wrapped over her wrist like bands, his thumb over her pulse point. But it wasn't crushing. Instead, he applied the smallest amount of pressure with his thumb. Like triggering a trap, her tendons reacted and her fingers sprang open, unbidden. Her wand slid out and landed softly on the bed at Malfoy's feet.

She reached across for her wand with her free hand, but Malfoy was faster. Naturally. Or rather, _super_naturally.

He pointed her wand millimetres from her nose.

Hermione tipped her head back – Draco thought she was trying to escape his grip or dodge the wand's trajectory, but then he realised she was raising her chin in defiance. "I wasn't lying. Your magic's gone."  
"Really?" Hermione merely glared at him. "Well then, if you're certain, let's put your theory to the test. _Adava Kedava_."

* * *

**Oh, yeah: cliffhanger. I do those sometimes. **  
**A lot of the time. **  
**Quite a lot.**

**Sorry.  
(Not sorry)**


	3. Vamprism is not a geographical condition

**Thank-you and hello to anyone who's reading!  
****Just a general notice: don't get used to this currently crazy-keen updating schedule. Unless you're already used to disappointment.  
Guest \- Still my favourite. **

* * *

_CHAPTER THREE - VAMPRISM IS NOT A GEOGRAPHICAL CONDITION  
__In which wands and tempers are lost, baskets and slaps are thrown, buildings are left and entered, and the milk is delivered._

"That curse always seems to throw you." Hermione commented lightly.  
Malfoy glowered at the wand in his thin fingers. Not even a spark or a pop or some heat had emanated from Granger's wand. He might as well have been brandishing a twig he'd plucked from a tree, and Draco felt vaguely foolish. "Shut up."  
"I did warn you it wouldn't work."  
"Shut _up_."  
"And you still doubted me."  
"_Shut_ _your filthy face_!"  
"I thought Slytherins were supposed to possess intelligence and cunning."  
He still had her wrist captured, so he pulled her up a little higher until she almost dangled off the floor like a fish on a hook. "And yet here I am," he snarled, "with your disarmed wand, and here's you, having dodged a killing curse on a theory and a technicality." The fact she hadn't even _winced_ when he spat the Kedava curse in her face showed she had always been confident she wasn't in danger.  
As if reading his mind she gave a blasé shrug. "Just another day at the office for me." All in that matter-of-fact corrective tone.  
"Yes, I can see how you must have become accustomed to vast multitudes of people throwing killing curses at you on a daily basis."  
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "This is my job, Malfoy - I've been through this all before. So I know I can help you, if you let me."

He dropped her wrist in disgust, as if her sentimentality was contagious, and folded his arms over his chest.

_Typical defensive behaviour_, Hermione noted.

"Don't think I'll be grateful, Granger, if you make me your next Cause and try to help me or neuter me or whatever deviousness you have planned. Remember, I got the last person who thought they saw good in me killed."  
The softness in Hermione's eyes went flat. Her voice hardened. "Don't you boast about it."  
"Dumbledore was a foo-"

There was a crack as Hermione hit his jaw. It wasn't as hard as marble; it was more like slapping ice. Draco's cheek smarted, not with pain, but with the shock of the heat from her palm on his cold skin.

Twin fires flared in Hermione's usually dull-brown eyes and she whirled to her feet. "You don't ever get to use Dumbledore's name."  
Malfoy sneered in disgust. "You're supposed to be a witch, for Merlin's sake. Yet all you do is throw punches like a common oafen Muggle down at the pub."  
Hermione seized her wand, abandoned when she'd slapped Malfoy. "You'd rather I'd curse you?"  
Malfoy, to his credit, didn't shy away when the wand-end had turned and was now levelled at his face. Instead he merely drawled, "Any action that doesn't involve you making physical contact with me is preferable."

His barb was meant to be another slur on her bloodlines, calculated to make her lose control. But Hermione irrationally focussed on his – clearly sarcastic – acquiescence in letting her hurt him. Since he'd given his permission, Hermione immediately rebelled against fulfilling his wishes.

Draco watched impartially as the witch before him took great heaving breaths in an attempt to calm herself down.

Why was Malfoy able to rile her to the point she forgot to _think_? Whenever he was near her she couldn't contain her temper, couldn't construct a decent argument or retort. She certainly couldn't formulate any curses – magical or verbal. She went from zero to violent with no middle ground. And he was just sitting there calmly in his hospital bed, looking for all the world like an ashen-skinned angel.

And the logical part of Hermione finally weighed in to argue that hexing a patient would not be a good look for her, professionally speaking. So she made up her mind. She was fairly proud of the evenness of her voice when she told the Vampire before her, "Due to our past history, I'll have another Officer assigned to your case."

Then she walked out.

When he was certain she wasn't monitoring him through the keyhole or returning for round two, Draco allowed himself to raise a hand to his cheek. Granger's slap had caused his fang to slice inside his cheek, and blood welled inside his mouth.

His cheek still burned – not with pain – he didn't think he had those receptors anymore, but with warmth. He wasn't surprised. Granger had been crackling with typical self-righteous fury. Her eyes had practically been aflame with it, like she was burning up from the inside.

_That's what life feels like_, his mind reminded him.  
F_elt like_.

He dropped his hand from his cheek.

_Fuck this_. He was going home.

Hospital couldn't cure him, and he was not some dispossessed House Elf so he was certainly beyond Granger's meagre abilities. He wouldn't take anyone's pity, or charity, or help. Help was a weakness and anyone who claimed they wanted to _help_ him would only build him up until he depended on them, so they could make him fall down again twice as hard.

He wrenched himself out of bed as a small voice inside him – sounding oddly smug and like Granger this time, sneered,  
_Running away to the Manor won't work.  
__Vampirism is not a geographical condition. _

But his parents probably didn't know what had happened to him; they were rarely aware of current events and drifted aimlessly about in the Manor since the war. He could turn up at home, say he'd been on a drinking bender or had a bad potion from Knockturn, or some such nonsense (or even say nothing at all), and he could step back into Draco Malfoy's old life. Just for a little bit.

Draco shrugged on his robe. As if mocking him, Granger's woven hamper sat by his bedside, another reminder of her and by extension, his condition. Was she really petty enough to send a hamper as a thank-you to his killers? Clearly, the Mudblood was some sort of unhinged; otherwise what sort of person bought a picnic basket to someone's deathbed? A woven wicker basket. _Woven_, as in_, sticks bent and twisted together_. How depressingly _Muggle_.

He petulantly swept the basket off his bed.

The picnic hamper crashed to the floor and he waited for some nurses to hurry in at the noise. He froze stock-still for a moment, his ears twitching, but life carried on down the corridors. Too bad if he'd fucking fallen out of bed or having a seizure or something. To be fair, he had thrown a lot of things when they'd first broken the news of his... condition.  
Mugs.  
Chairs.  
Beds.  
People.

It was a miracle Granger had the guts to come into his room; whether she knew him or not, he had heard them whisper about how dangerous he was, and it had rather gone to his head, to be honest. Everyone else had knocked at his door (oftentimes walking briskly away when it became evident he was still inside), and if they gathered the courage to attend to him, they stood awkwardly in the hallway and talked at him from across that great distance. Granger had walked right in and plopped herself down at his bedside, and Draco didn't know if it was thoughtless stupidity or a refusal to be cowed. She had been a Gryffindor after all, so it was probably the former dressed up as the latter.

Curious, Malfoy peered over the edge of the bed to study the spilled contents of the basket she'd brought with her.

Scattered around the linoleum floor was a silver-coloured pamphlet entitled, "_So now you have officially joined the species known as the Living Dead_"; a factsheet of his tolerances and allergies; a guide entitled "_Getting your Way with_ _Vampiric Thrall: when is it acceptable to use it_?"; a calendar-card-sized almanac of dawn and dusk times for the current year; a membership form for the Society of Tolerance to Vampires – probably chaired by Granger –; a labelled poster of the human venous system (with the arteries coloured a sickly 'don't drink here' green); and some Bloodpops from Honeydukes.

"Bloodpops," Draco hissed.

And this girl was supposed to be an expert?

* * *

Hermione sat at her kitchen table, listening to the rain and checking over her case notes for the day. Although technically 'today' had ticked into 'tomorrow' a few hours ago, so she was – more accurately – writing _yesterday's_ case notes.

_Patient_ _76152 has refused initial stages of palliative treatment and seems unsupportive towards any course of rehabilitative care._

A sodden owl at her window delivered more unhappy news, and Hermione updated her records accordingly.

_Patient_ _76152 has also recently checked out of the hospital._

Along with her hopes of securing her funding. Then her impartiality reassociated the name she'd been trying to block.

_Patient 76152 is Draco Malfoy_, her brain reasserted. _You were supposed to look after him. __Instead he tried to kill you – which you should have expected – then you hit him, over which you should have better control, and now his whereabouts are unknown. __Great way to win over the only Vampire that you could have signed up for your study_.

The doorbell to her apartment chimed and Hermione muttered, "Really! I know I asked for my key back, but how many times I have told him to just Floo in..."

She wrenched the hallway door open.

The milk pints patiently sat on the welcome mat (Charmed of course, to be anything but welcoming for unexpected visitors). Hermione was about to stoop down to pick them up when she froze.

Thunder clattered above the building. The neon lights bathing the hallway flickered in time with the lightning outside.

There, at the end of the hall, stood Draco Malfoy.

Hermione muffled a little squeak of surprise.  
Another flash of lightning allowed a freeze-frame of rain dripping off Malfoy's jaw and threading down his robes.  
The hallway plunged into darkness again.  
Another bull-whip crack of thunder. The lights strobed.  
Malfoy stood in directly front of her now, no more than a hand-span away from her. His long fingers grasped the edge of her open door.  
"Why're you here, Malfoy?" she asked, unconsciously echoing the question he'd asked when he first saw her earlier in the day.  
Malfoy leant in until his face was an inch away from her. She noted his eyes were grey flecked, like granite, and mesmerising with vampiric Thrall.

"I'm here to kill you, Granger." A feral smile escaped the thin pressed line of his lips. "Invite me in so we can begin, will you?"

His voice fizzed in her brain. Slowly, Hermione opened the door wider.

Malfoy's hollow smile widened too, allowing shadows to spill out from behind his fangs.

* * *

**Let's see how often I can end a chapter imperilling Hermione's life, shall we? It's great fun. So far we're three for three.**


	4. 3 Simple Rules

**Hello, hope all my readers are well this evening, my name is Elinai and I will be your author for this chapter. Lemme just speak to my peeps and then we'll be underway.  
My Favorite \- I approve of the new nom-de-plume, btw. Would you believe, I am trying to tone _down_ Hermione's BAMF-ness because that's Malfoy's wheel-house and he hates sharing, but apparently that sarcasm just keeps creeping in. Also nice to know while I'm imperilling the lives of my characters (disclaimer: not actually 'my' characters), I'm also saving the lives of your co-workers. I feel this balances out nicely.  
hoshiakari7 \- Oh haiii new reviewer! Welcome to the elite club of Authors Note Before the Story. Damn you and your intelligent common-sense. You are right on all counts about everything. But maybe there'll be a twist this time? Or maybe not, because I mentioned it? Maybe it's all just a ruse and _nothing._ _is. real._ I'll stop, before this story segways into Matrix territory or breaks a fourth wall somewhere. **

* * *

_CHAPTER FOUR - 3 SIMPLE RULES  
In which Hermione has a surprise house-guest, Draco gives an unexpected gift (and receives one in turn), and milk is spilt. _

He tried to step forwards, but something stopped him. It was a nagging at the back of his mind, telling him he'd forgotten something, stewing and simmering and popping in his brain like a potion in a cauldron, and when he moved forwards something in his brain sparked and he saw stars behind his eyes.

He shot Hermione a look that was equal parts vexation and half a question.

"There needs to be a gift for the house," she explained softly. "It symbolises goodwill."

Draco rolled his silvery eyes and caught the milk bottles in the periphery of his vision. The next second they were in his hands, so swiftly and silently the glass hadn't even clinked together.

"Have some bovine by-product, Granger." Dimly, Hermione realised he was a paler white than even the milk he held.

She accepted the milk and the bottles chimed merrily in her shaky hands.

Draco only succeeded in leaning forward before that governing instinct boiled over in his brain, frothing up his mind.

"Fucking _what_ _now_?" he snarled.

"The invitation has to be spoken."

Draco growled low in his throat. "Fucking say the words then." Fucking Granger always thinking she had all the fucking answers.

A frown puckered on Granger's brow, as if a little voice was telling her that welcoming in an irate Vampire was not a great idea. Her self-preservation instincts duelled with his Thrall, threatening to overpower his little voice saying, _Do What I Say._

Draco waited, truly fuming now that Granger was making him wait on a welcome mat like her answer fucking _mattered_. No doubt she was savouring that he had to actually listen to her reply for once in his life. Anger locked in his throat, as it always did, making it impossible to speak, or load more beguiling Thrall into his voice, compelling her further. Instead he rested his temple on the doorframe and projected his wishes from the rest of his whole being.

He'd always been ash-white and sleek, with the added dark circles under his eyes; the Vampirism hadn't altered his appearance physically. He'd looked like that all through 6th year, so really, Draco looked the same since Hogwarts. A little taller, perhaps, and a little too darkly handsome than someone had right to be. Hermione couldn't see how someone who was so - _white_ \- could be so dark looking. Anyway, his smile, or rather, lack of, changed his face from handsome to dangerous. Smiling face: handsome. No smile: dangerous. Hermione could handle that. Everyone knew Malfoy never smiled anyway. At least not around her, the blood plague.

But she had to remember that the... entity... standing on her doorstep, she had to stop thinking of him as Malfoy. Sparks jumped in her brain, trying to light through the silken fog sifting through her mind at Malfoy's Thrall. Because the person who stood before her was a Vampire foremost, and his Thrall kept making her forget that.

She considered him for longer than she spent dwelling over some of Professor Vector's numerical equations, before she finally spoke in a soft voice and acquiesced, "Please come inside, Malfoy."

Malfoy immediately flew towards her.

Hermione let out a muted squeak, backing up against the hallway. The milk bottles clanked in her trembling hands. Malfoy moved in, caging her against the wall, arms blinkering her vision. The front door banged closed behind him like a gallows-sentence.

He debated covering her mouth to muffle the ensuing screams, but he wanted to avoid touching her as much as possible. And this way he could enjoy Granger's screams, her begging him to stop, her pleading...

His granite eyes flickered over her neck. He leant in closer, until his mouth was level with her own. His fangs were as pointed as the rest of his features when he spoke down to her, the ends so sharp they were translucent, like the point of a hypodermic needle.

"Does the Head of Vampire Rehabilitation care to depart any tips on best practice for exsanguinations?"

A cold feeling tingled over Hermione's collar bone. It felt like an ice-cube applied on her neck, and with a jolt she realised it was Draco's breath, fluttering against her throat.

"Be mindful I haven't done this before, Granger, so do try not to be too critical as I'm killing you." He cast a disdainful look around her hallway, eyes falling on the side-table and animate glassware. "This will probably be painful and messy, but the blood and savagery might help liven up the decor."

Her heart thudded heavily in her chest, echoing in the hollow of her throat.

"You can't-" she stammered.

He paused.

"Enlighten me, Granger," he chuckled darkly against her neck. Merlin's beard, her pulse was scorching against his lips. "What pitiful argument can you conjure up to save your miserable life?"

Hermione fell silent.

He drew back to better savour the defeat of Hermione Granger, reduced to silence for once, unable to even beg for her life. And still clutching those stupid milk pints to her chest, as if they were a shield protecting her weak, Mudblood body.

"Nothing to say?" She felt his mouth almost brush against her skin as he spoke, low and cold. "At least you aren't bothering to waste my time with drivel or tears."

He paused once more.

Then he waited like that for several moments, just standing there, leaning into Hermione but making no other move. He smelt, incongruously, of raspberries. Not the most masculine scent, but that tart, Summery scent was unmistakable.

"You can't kill me," Hermione finally voiced, and Malfoy bared his teeth reflexively at the patient, chiding tone her voice took. The same tone she'd used when he'd tried to kill her with her own wand in the hospital. Aggravating and self-assured and certainly not helping calm down his killing rage.

"Explain," he growled. "Because I am fucking _trying_." And he had been trying to bite her for the last few moments, but his body wouldn't respond. Just like when he'd been blocked from walking through her doorway without her express permission.

Hermione braced a hand against his chest to futilely push him away. His chest was motionless, absent from breaths, warmth or even the distant hum of a heartbeat. He didn't wince, he just kept looming down at her with that killing look. Hermione didn't allow her gaze to falter either, because that was how she'd been trained as a Rehabilitation Officer to show dominance to supernatural part-humans. There were three basic but vital rules that helped her – so far – not get killed in her job.  
Don't show weakness.  
Don't back down from a fight.  
Don't break eye-contact.

Eyes narrowed in disdain, Malfoy pulled back to regroup, then launched himself at her again.

_Don't back down._

Once more his hands slammed beside her head, but she guessed their true target had been her shoulders, perhaps even her face. He could cage her in, but he couldn't actually raise a hand, or a fang, to harm her.

His rain-soaked hair hung over his eyes and he gave a nonchalant flick of his head, sending a spray of droplets shaking off his fringe. Several drops fell onto Hermione's cheek, trailing like fingertips.

A fresh wave of goosebumps swept over her skin. A tremble started in the small of her back that she immediately suppressed before it threatened to slither further up her spine.

_Don't show weakness_.

Hermione finally trusted her voice to reply. There had been a rather large lump stuck in her throat, as if her words couldn't get past the sensation of Draco's cool breath sliding over her skin. "You can't kill me because of the Domesticity and Good Will Ward."

Malfoy shot her a killing look that actually curdled the milk in the bottles closest to him.

"You offered the house a gift and I welcomed you in as a guest, so you can't bear the house's occupant any Ill Will under its roof. Or at least until the gift is spent," she added.

Hermione mentally bit her lip, trying to keep those last words from slipping out. Of course, she always _had_ to give a _full_ and _complete_ answer; she couldn't just _forget_ to add that last bit of information that would signal the spell's weakness to the Vampire gnashing its teeth in front of her. She raised her toffee eyes to Malfoy hopefully. _Maybe he wouldn't realise_.

Malfoy eyed the milk, tilted his head in swift calculation, then slapped it out of her hands.

He stalked in again, his eyes funeral-grey and broken milk-bottle glass crackling underfoot like snapping bones.

Something hairy and gingery streaked over his feet. Malfoy flinched, expecting an attack, but the furry beast honed in on the milk and began lapping it up with delicate darts of its triangular tongue, enjoying the unintentional gift splattered all over his owner's hardwood floors.

Malfoy looked down at it in disgust. "Is that Weasley?"

"What? No! It's Crookshanks." He still seemed flabbergasted. "My _cat_."

"Oh." He looked between Granger and the thing enjoying the spilled milk on the floor, curling its tail around his trousers' leg. "Are you certain?"

"Who's at the door 'Mione?" came a gingery accented voice.

Now that voice definitely _was_ Weasley.

Weasley bumbled into the hallway, coffee mug in hand.

_Not surprising_, Draco thought, barely raising an eyebrow at the intrusion. _But excellent all the same_.

"Give me your wand," Draco demanded. Ron dreamily pulled his out of his sock and handed it to Malfoy, who refused to touch it. "Shit, anyone but _you_, Weasley."

Granger, on the other hand, made no motion to remove the wand from the front pocket of her jeans, like he'd asked of her. It seemed she was resisting his Thrall, and he was beginning to think she'd only been acting under his command when she let him in. What he didn't know was _why_ she'd even bother to pretend.

Hermione followed Malfoy's line of sight to her undrawn wand. "A Vampire's Thrall is like the Imperius Curse," she explained smugly. "Also in the sense that it can be, with enough practice, ignored." She enjoyed flaunting her knowledge over Malfoy: it gave her an excuse to be a little superior without actively putting anyone down. Whereas Malfoy was all about the insults, as direct as the Hogwarts Express.

He opened his mouth to no doubt deliver a blistering insult just as scheduled, when he raised his eyes to the end of the corridor, distracted.

A messy-haired person appeared in the hallway, drawing _their_ wand a great shot faster than Weasley had, and a jot faster than even Granger would. Fast enough that even a Vampire's reflexes didn't allow him time to realise Harry Potter had levelled his wand at Draco's chest and shouted,

"Adava Kedava!"

Malfoy slumped to the floor in a flash of green light.

* * *

******Eventually, maybe, one of these death-wishes will stick? Anyway, Draco was due to be on the business end of that curse. I'm all for equal opportunity ;P **** **


	5. Don't show weakness

**Hello to my invisible readers I can't address individually, but I still appreciate you. **

**Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named: we're getting very creative with these review names, aren't we? ****Also, sadly, my previous greeting was more a reference to lolcats than the Room, as I haven't been drunk enough to justify attending a uni showing of that movie yet.**

**Author out.**

* * *

"That was a little excessive, Harry," Hermione sighed as she Levitated Draco Malfoy's dead body down the hallway, depositing it into a plushy brass-tacked armchair near the kitchen table.  
"Do we have to keep him here?" Ron complained. "'S creepy. What do you do with dead bodies anyway?"  
Ron toed the body.  
Malfoy groaned.  
Ron screamed.  
Harry raised his wand to deliver the killing curse again (because Harry logic).  
"_Don't-you-dare_," Hermione hissed in warning.  
Harry reluctantly lowered his wand.  
"He's not dead," Ron squeaked. "_Why isn't he_ _dead_!"  
"He's _already_ dead, Ronald," Hermione countered, setting tea-cups around the table, absently including Malfoy. "The killing curse only works on _living_ people. Now sit down and drink your tea."

Draco's eyes slitted open in time to see both Harry and Ron draw out chairs and sit protectively flanking Granger. So that was why she let him into her apartment so easily – she had her body guards, the weasel and the suicidal lemming.

Granger with not one but two males for company at five a.m. Suddenly she just got a bit more interesting.

Malfoy's scrutiny fell to the teapot steaming on the table. It seemed Granger was taking a chapter out of the British Standard Textbook when encountering an odd or awkward social situation: Serve Tea. He'd had enough of the faux-pleasantries growing up at the Manor, and he could play the part as well as the rest of them.

"Well, this is all very civilised." He seized the rain-damped sleeve of his robes and wrung it out directly onto the floor, imagining it was Granger's neck he was twisting instead of the fabric. He hoped she understood the symbolism and threat inherent.

Hermione surveyed Draco over the rim of her tea-cup. "So Malfoy, how have you been?"  
"A Vampire."  
"I see. Is that why you wanted to kill me?"  
"I wanted to kill you because it's Tuesday." He curled his fingers around the mug, seemingly to enjoy it's warmth, even as he curled his lip up at the cup's contents. "I wasn't aware I required a reason."  
"Oi-" Ron started.  
"Ron, drink your tea."

The conversation paused, presumably while Hermione waited for a more satisfactory answer. "I felt there was a chance I might lose control and kill someone. Naturally, I thought of you." The corner of his lip lifted upwards fractionally. Hermione noted he only seemed to almost-smile when contemplating killing her.  
"Oi," Harry began.  
"Harry, drink your tea," Hermione echoed, a little less sharply than she had with Ron.  
Draco noted that exchange with interest. Weasley was on the outer with Granger? "If you're the Rehabilitation Officer you claim to be, Granger, you should be able to negate any damage."

He expected she'd be outraged at the disregard he showed towards murder. He thought as a Gryffindor she'd leap to the defence of these perceived endangerments towards 'precious human life,' rare snowflakes as they are. At the very least he expected some lecture about how vile he was, and how disappointing she found his behaviour.

Hermione set her teacup down on the saucer, gave him a good long stare of which McGonagall would be proud and said, "Oh, grow up, Malfoy." Malfoy bridled. _Definitely need to relearn Occlumency, immediately, if not sooner. _"Take some responsibility for your actions. My job description isn't to clear up your messes and hide the bodies you kill. If you kill someone, that's your fault, not mine."  
He recovered his surprise swiftly. "In that case, I haven't made up my mind yet."  
"About whether you'll kill me or not?" asked Hermione lightly. Part of Draco admired her coolness – the school-aged Hermione had a tendency to scream. Shrilly.  
"About which of you I'll kill _first_."

He paused there with relish, waiting for Granger to take the bait and begin screeching like a Banshee. She was very predictable in that way, and very uncouth. Slytherins loved a good threat – making one or taking one, didn't matter – and judged a foe's mettle on their ability to handle an insult or candid observation. A cool reserve was a highly prized trait to Slytherins, and, conversely, displays of emotions were a very obvious weakness. Hermione, contrary to his expectations, serenely poured a top-up of tea into her cup and Malfoy had to work very hard not to feel a sliver of grudging respect.

"You won't kill us, Malfoy."  
"That a fact, Granger? See it written in a book somewhere?"  
"You keep eying Harry. And me. So you mustn't like your odds, three against one." No, Granger and Potter especially were a quick-draw on the curses since the war.  
"Two against one," Draco corrected. "Weasley's soft in the brain."  
"Because you Enthralled him."  
"Is he not normally that malleable? I thought that was how you ..._persuaded_ him to look at you romantically in the first place."  
"Oi!" Ron began again.  
This time it was Draco's turn to cut him off. "Go sit in the sink, Weasley."

Ron did just that, storming off to the sink and clattering tea-cups off the drying rack in protest.

Hermione's eyes didn't leave Malfoy's as she wordlessly cast the _Repario_ charm on her crockery. It was the first time she'd raised her wand all night.

When she finished mending the porcelain and china she turned her wand towards Ron's vacant face. Weasley's feet dangled outside the sink, his knees up around his chin and the faucet dripping in his ear and down his shoulder. Detergent bubbles cascaded over the edge of the sink and onto the floor.

"He stays there, Granger, or my next suggestion is he sticks his head in a bedpan – you must have loads of them lying around due to your work."

"I am _not_ a nurse!"

"Evidently. And you're not much of a Rehabilitation Officer either." Forgetting himself, or perhaps now comfortably in his element after landing several insults, he deigned to take a sip of his tea. Conversationally, he added as an after-thought, "I notice you and Potter aren't susceptible to this Thrall."

Much like building up a resistance to the Imperius Curse, the only reason she was still alive and in possession of her wand was she'd built up a mental tolerance to Thrall. She speculated Harry's immunity came from his skill with defence against the dark arts in general. How far the similarities between Vampire's Thrall and the Imperius Curse could be stretched was one of the multitudinous areas of study Hermione wished to pursue, if she could get a Vampire to stay still for observations for more than a few days. And now one had turned up on her doorstep and was currently sneering at her tea over her kitchen table.

"Actually, Potter, you've been remarkably quiet."  
Harry had been sipping his tea, intently watching the situation.  
"Last Christmas," he finally said, "I bought Hermione '_Anguished to Zonked: a variegated A-Z collection of the most painful curses known to wizard-kind'_."  
"And you're telling me this because you're hurt I left you off my Christmas card list? Because it was a deliberate decision on my part: take the hint, Potter."  
"I'm telling you this because you know what a quick study Hermione is." Malfoy shot a considering look Hermione's way, silvery eyebrow raised. "Over 500 curses," Harry added. "Unfortunately she hasn't been able to test the spells on anyone, since now the war's over. I'm sure we could still find a few stray Death Eaters to practice on."

He looked pointedly at Draco's arm, just by his elbow crease.  
"No need to harp on, Potter, I got the subtext. You're not speaking to Weasley here." Ron splashed morosely in the sink behind Harry.  
"I'm not overly concerned about Malfoy being here," Hermione pacified faintly, still thinking about study foci. Much as she disliked his personal presence, he could be the break-through her work needed.  
"But Hermione, he's a dirty great _Vampire_!"

"Thanks for that, Weasley. I certainly am great, but a bit too early in the morning for flattery and dirty talk, isn't it? And take note, Potter; just because I keep a bohemian lifestyle with somewhat relaxed morals, doesn't mean I want to take up the yoke of playing both sides of the Quidditch Pitch. If my flirting makes your over-sensitive heart just flutter with unspoken, forbidden joy, I'll concentrate my efforts on upsetting Granger."  
"I'm with Ginny, Malfoy, so settle down."  
"Who's Ginny?"  
"Ron's sister?" Hermione offered as Harry said,  
"She played Quidditch for Gryffindor."  
"Oh yes," Malfoy waved a hand negligently before his face. "The Seeker. Not bad, if I remember, but then I imagine hounding after anything shiny is instinctive for a Weasley." He gave a minute shrug of one angular shoulder. "And one gingery haired Weasley looks the much the same as another I suppose, Potter."  
"Don't you start, Malfoy," Hemione chided. Malfoy immediately bristled, clutching his tea-cup like he was about use it as weaponry, but Hermione blithely rounded on the next person. "And Ron, you'd think you'd be over your prejudices now, after what happened to Bill…"  
"Bit different though, isn't it?" Ron grumbled.  
"And Harry, you of all people. You're starting to sound as bigoted as Malfoy. I mean, Lupin is a werewolf, and you saw how hard it was for him. How he was persecuted."  
"Yeah." Harry agreed. "But I still think Ron's right: there is a difference," he added hotly. "I mean, Lupin always stayed away from people at the full moon, didn't he, so he wouldn't bite them. If you ask me, Malfoy sounds pretty keen to have a go."  
"Again, you wish, Potter. Keep your fantasies to yourself."  
"And frankly, Hermione," Ron added, "he's just too dangerous."  
"I couldn't agree more." Draco lounged in the armchair like a cat, long legs out-stretched. He didn't quite look like an unsettling creature of the night, Hermione thought, but then again, it was only half-past-five in the morning.  
"Lupin was only dangerous around the full moon," Ron lectured. "This fanged git is up for all hours of the day and night."

Hermione was just about to tell Ron he had no right to control who she saw any more – personally or professionally - when Malfoy drawled, "Why don't you make yourself useful for once in your life, Weasley, and wash the dishes. Seeing as you're already there." Ron was so under Draco's Thrall he didn't even hop out of the sink, he just pulled some cutlery into his lap and began soaping it up. Draco smirked at the sight. Nothing was more torturous and demeaning than a Wizard performing manual labour. House-Elf work. Although Granger was aggressively anti-House-Elves, so maybe Weasley did the domestic chores after all.

Hermione watched Ron apply sponges to her chopping boards and felt ethically torn. On one hand, she purposefully left her sink full, ready to do the dishes the 'old fashioned' way, without Scourgifying charms. She found it helped her mind unravel, hearing the slosh of water in the sink, and the rasp of the bristles against the ceramics. And it brought back memories of her parents: her father would always wash the dishes after a meal, and her mother would be waiting by his side with a tea-cloth, ready to dry and place the dishes back in the cupboards. On the other hand, after the day she was having, she really didn't feel up to doing the dishes. And Ron, when in his right mind, had never offered during their entire time dating.

Hermione was about to lift Malfoy's Thrall on Ron when the Vampire lobbed his empty tea-cup directly at Ron's head. Ron caught it sloppily, and Draco immediately chased it up with a rapid throw of the accompanying saucer. It frisbeed past Ron's shoulder, catching his cheek on the path to smashing itself to smithereens against the splashback.

"Some Keeper," Malfoy sneered. "No wonder you couldn't hold onto Granger. Now, are we done here? It's past my bedtime, and I get rather grumpy if I don't get my eight hours." He gave a slow smile and his fangs appeared below his lips like two punctuation points. "Wouldn't want me to bite Granger's head off, would you?"

With that last line, Malfoy stalked off.

From his spot at the sink, Ron followed Malfoy's disappearance with a wary eye. "What's he doing?"

Hermione sighed and set her tea aside. "I imagine he's just invaded my house."

"And what're you doing?" Ron asked.

"Giving him the grand tour."

Draco didn't need a tour. He paused in the hallway after testing the three doors it contained. Bathroom, bedroom (which he shut promptly with the greatest of horror, like Anne finding Bluebeard's basement) and laundry. No more doors. He was stumped.

"Are you lost already?" asked Hermione.  
"Where's my room?" Malfoy demanded.  
The gall of the man! "You don't have one. You see, when I bought this flat, I never once thought, '_And where will Malfoy sleep? __Do you think he'd prefer a room with wainscoting or wallpaper_?'"  
"Typical Granger oversight," Malfoy acknowledged. "I prefer both." He trailed his fingers over the painted walls then jerked them away, like he'd just touched something unpleasant. "I was aiming for a common guest bedroom, however," Malfoy cast a look back down the hallway, as if expecting it to change like Hogwarts' staircases, "you seem to be experiencing a distinct shortage of doors."

Hemione blew out a sigh. Doors weren't the half of it. Doors, walls, rooms; what she lacked was _space_ in general. "I don't have a guest room either."

"Well, you're not impoverished like Weasley, or stupid, like Potter. Make one."

Hermione gave an internal eye-roll. It wasn't that simple. Sustaining a room, especially one to the standards Malfoy no doubt expected, would be exhausting, especially in her current location, wedged between all the other apartments pressing down on her magic, and she – unlike him – had a day job she devoted her energy towards.

"I should kick you out and watch you fry on my doorstep like bacon." _But you won't_, her inner voice chided. _Too helpful for your own good_. "If our roles were reversed, you'd never welcome me into Malfoy Manor – and that one time I was dragged there doesn't count."

A slight line appeared in Malfoy's brow, just between his quicksilver eyebrows. It was almost as if he didn't know how to respond. He had assumed she'd want to ignore those unpleasant memories.

She, on the other hand, would happily let him stew and squirm in the tiniest shred of guilt a Slytherin might be capable of displaying, but he went and ruined it by snapping,  
"Hurry up, Granger."

"Hold your Threstrals, Malfoy," replied Hermione without any real heat. She busily weighed up her options. She had a duty-of-care to her patient, even though it was outside of her regular work hours. She could offer him entry to a Vampire safe house set up to avoid dawn-issues, but she wasn't its Secret Keeper and couldn't put Malfoy in touch with the correct people in the last-minute. She supposed he could take her reading couch as a last resort just for now, if she blacked-out the windows and made every crack light-tight. Or maybe she should just conjure a room for him, simply to shut him up, before he picked her house to pieces the same way he did everything else.

"The sun's coming up, I can _feel_ it."  
"Stop being so hyperb-" Hermione stopped when she saw his face. Malfoy's eyes were wide, his pupils blown out with emotion.  
"Granger, I don't like it." His voice was tight. "It feels like I'm dying."  
"O-"

He half slid, half staggered away from the window and bumped into the side-table, rattling the glass figurines. A small herd of glass deer teetered precariously before they galloped away from the table's edge.

Malfoy's fringe flicked into his face, swaying. "Merlin, Granger, I can't even br-"

Then he slumped to the floor.

Hermione stood, frozen and staring, for several long seconds. She had just effectively watched Malfoy die. She hadn't enjoyed it as much as she'd thought, even with the rational knowledge he wasn't truly dead. She'd just stood by and not done anything, helpless in a crisis. One second he'd been criticising her, then he'd just... _died_. And she hadn't comforted him, hadn't gone over to him.

_Great hospital treatment there, Granger_, she could imagine him saying.

"What was that, 'Mione?" Ron called worriedly from the kitchen. "Malfoy didn't kill you, did he?"  
Hermione bit back the urge to answer, '_Why yes, yes he did'_. Instead she called out, "Other way around. He just expired in my hallway." After a pause she added, "Again."  
"Bit of a one-trick pony, isn't he?"

She eyed the Vampire's body slumped on her hall runner. Slender as he was, he took up a vast portion of her corridor, all legs and crooks and elbows. His face was turned to side and hidden behind his fringe, but he looked peaceful in a way the hyper-alert Vampires couldn't be, and closed-off Malfoy never was. A droplet of rain slid from his hair and trickled onto her floor. She resisted the urge to seize him by the cuffs and drag him around her house like a mop. _Barely_.

Instead she Levitated him back to her over-fed-looking armchair. She then cast a bubble of Perpetual Night around that corner of the room, vaguely annoyed the spell would tax her magic all day. And she'd had another night without sleep to top it off.

Still, she was glad she insisted on these social catch-ups with Ron and Harry. At first it had been to keep an eye on Harry after the war, and she'd had to threaten using the Time Turner if they didn't clear their schedules once a month (even though Harry got slightly paranoid about standing appointments, spouting about potential security breaches and predictive behaviour). But now it was just friendly catch-ups, venting after bad days, advice giving and taking.

"Don't worry, Hermione," Harry said, gripping her shoulder in what would have been a reassuring gesture, only his fingers clutched a little too hard. His grip masked the stress shakes and tremors he suffered from, Hermione knew. "Let me know if you had to throw the book at him." He nodded back to the '_Anguished to Zonked'_ tome sitting in her favourite wing-backed reading chair, and Hermione smiled at him. He was trying to be positive, for her.

She also felt a little warm tickle of happiness that Harry hadn't second-guessed her choice in allowing Malfoy to stay at her place. He hadn't tried to protect her or lecture her on Malfoy's violence. In other words, he hadn't told her how to do her job.

Harry stepped over the doormat and immediately Apparated away.

Ron, released from Malfoy's Thrall now Malfoy was out for the count (or Ron was all out of dishes to clean; Hermione wished she could run tests to find out which scenario was true), mashed his hands into his pockets, causing a cascade of dishwasher to puddle out, and nodded at her as he squelched out.

_Ah. __Still not entirely forgiven about the break-up, then_. But Ron handled it with quiet dignity. So far. She'd compared him to a teaspoon once, and so far he'd lived up to it. He only reserved his extreme emotions for giant spiders and the Chudley Cannons, it seemed, and for once she was grateful.

Hermione shut the door and double-checked the locks and wards, giving a little silent thanks to her Charmed Welcome mat. Then she leant her back against the door, letting the deadbolts dig into her shoulder-blades so she wouldn't felt guilty she'd just admitted she was _relieved_ her relationship was over.

Her eyes drifted over to the dark corner of her living room. Malfoy's presence in her house was a literal black cloud as well as figurative. She toyed with a fine golden chain around her neck while she wondered what exactly had brought him to her door, and why he was so riled up.

* * *

**A/N: I made a promise/challenge to myself and I would like to point out we're five-for-five death/near-death cliffhangers.*****Buffs nails on shirt***

Also as a side-note I'd like to point out in no _Bluebeard_ version can I find the name of the female protagonist - it seems the wives are only worthy of names _after_ they get brutally murdered. Interestingly Anne is the name of the current wife's _sister_. A fem or lit studies major, get on that stat.


End file.
